The Hound, Hero of Ferelden
by EmbertoInferno
Summary: Sandor Clegane somehow ends up in Ferelden shortly before things go to shit. How will our favorite chicken-eater deal with idiot kings, busty witches, and fire-breathing dragons?
1. Origin

"_Any man dies with a clean blade . . . I'll rape his fucking corpse!"_

The Hound was in his element, hacking apart the poor sods unfortunate enough to charge the gates. The screams of the dying were almost music to his tortured soul. Blood caked his sword, and his armour, and his helmet for which he was known, a snarling hound, teeth bared, ready for the kill. Stannis Baratheon and whatever was left of his fleet was attacking the Mud Gate, hoping to break through and sack the city. Technically it was his by rights, Joffrey was an inbred bastard and only king by the strength of his grandfather's army. Said army was currently somewhere in the Riverlands, and of absolutely no use to anyone at the minute. The City Watch and whatever men the Queen Regent had left would have to do. A bunch of frightened boy-whores, the lot of them. Fear of him kept the defenders fighting on to the last gasp, none wanting him to make good on his terrifying promise.

Suddenly, a piece of ball-lightning* appeared out of nowhere, crashed into him, and everything went to shit.

Without the Hound to inspire the men, the gates soon fell. As men stood scratching their arses, wondering what had happened, Stannis's men, who were just as confused, but far better trained, charged forward and hacked the defenders apart. Joffrey couldn't flee the scene fast enough, but his uncle, Lord Tyrion, the Imp, held the gates and the wall as long as was feasible, before an armoured gauntlet smashed into his face and everything went dark.

Stannis took the city a little over an hour later, and not a moment too soon, as the absent Tywin Lannister finally arrived with the Knights of the Reach, all in splendid, expensive armour and gleaming swords, only to face closed gates and an unfamiliar standard above the walls. As he soon realised, horses aren't all that great at climbing ladders, and so they began to besiege the city even as the men of the Burning Stag moved to hold what they had just conquered. That might have been the end of it, were it not for the fearsome pirate, Salladhor Saan, who had been kept in reserve. He fired scorpion bolts into the disorganised cavalry, rained arrows down upon them, and sent them fleeing in a disorganised mess. Tywin Lannister was found the next morning, trampled to death. His mourners were few and far between.

Stannis took Maegor's Holdfast without too much difficulty, grinding his teeth over the dead body of his no-longer-nephew Tommen. He was a sweet boy, weak to be sure, but with none of the Lannister poison. Joffrey, on the other hand, was captured alive and burned at the stake, screaming curses and begging mercy in equal measure. A vicious, evil coward to the end. His mother, who had poisoned her other son with nightshade to spare him this fate, soon followed. The witch prattled on about her Fire God, and Stannis took a moment to think. _R'hllor_ played no part in this victory. Men took the city, men held the city, and these executions reminded him unfavourably of the Mad King Aerys Targaryen. She had power, to be sure, but it was time to put a stop to this nonsense. He drew his sword and calmly walked forward, beheading his late brother's wife before the flames reached too high, unknowingly imitating a certain Archon from a world he had never heard of.

The following months brought much peace and stability to the region. Robb Stark eventually bent the knee and surrendered his crown after many long peace talks, and quite a large serving of humble pie. Sansa went home, bringing Ice with her, though she was not the same girl the family remembered. Arya turned up at Riverrun, and it was a day of great rejoicement, though she too had seen things that could not be unseen. Through great trial and error, the Stark family healed, especially with the return of Rickon, though they never saw Bran again.

Walder Frey sat and stewed in his keep, but never, thankfully, hosted a wedding again in his lifetime.

Tyrion survived the battle, and was forced to become a Maester of the Citadel, having little difficulty earning his chain, though he viewed the oath of celibacy as a polite suggestion, and frequently visited places of ill repute. Shae did not go with him, and he never loved again.

Eventually The Wall came under attack from both Wildlings and the White Walkers, but both were stopped in their tracks by the combined might of Westeros, and something approaching a happy ending came about for most people.

But none of that really matters, this is about Ferelden, the Blight, and the most unethical Grey Warden in the history of Thedas. Sandor Clegane brought Ferelden into a new age, kicking and screaming when necessary, and his legend lived in infamy long after his death, with ruggedly handsome dwarves adding fantastical details with every telling.

*Look it up. No-one knows what it does, and it's as good a world-hopping plot device as any.


	2. Join us, Brother

Join us, Brother

Duncan pulled the blade out from Ser Jory's corpse. A coward. He had seen many. Killed many.

The elf shivered as he handed her the chalice.

'From this moment forth, you are a Grey Warden.'

She drank.

Convulsed.

And lived.

Silence. **BANG!**

White light. Impossibly bright. Heat. Fire. _Screaming_.

A man lay upon the floor, armor smoking from the intense heat. A fearsome helm, in the shape of a snarling Mabari, or perhaps a mastiff, was yanked off and thrown aside as the man bellowed out a command.

'WINE!' he shouted, over and over, in a ruined voice.

Had the Maker sent him? Or magic? Duncan had no answers. Only a half empty chalice. Jory did not drink. There was enough for one last Joining.

'Here, Ser. Drink this' he said, tilting the chalice to the man's lips. Up close, he could see the terrible burns that left his face a ruin, a parody of a man.

The Maker had not sent this man.

'Fuck your Sers' he growled out, downing the contents. 'I'm not a knight'

There was a pause, a dreadful long pause as he swallowed the bile, before his eyes rolled back, and he lived.

'From this moment forth, you are a Grey Warden.'

He turned at last to look upon Alistair. The boy radiated confusion, but assisted in dragging away the corpses. The elf looked positively tiny next to this giant of a man. Even without horns, he would have stood level with the Qunari. Possibly even larger. His armor was well made, yet poorly kept. Rusted, bloodied, dented and nicked. His swords, for he carried both a longsword that many might use for a greatsword, and a greatsword that many more could not swing, let alone weild.

'MAGE!' came the cry as Templars rushed up the hill.

_Ah, shit._

-oOo-

Sandor Clegane was not a happy bunny, no siree.

He was probably dead, he thought. The dreams of a bloated, diseased dragon gave way to two men, one past his prime and another only just coming into his. He could see no problem in taking them out. There was a girl there, too. Fragile little thing, he could have broken her in half without much effort.

Funny shaped ears too.

_Huh._

'So which of the Seven Hells is this shite-heap?' he asked with typical grace.

'This is the fortress of Ostagar, in the south of the Kingdom of Ferelden' the older warrior replied. 'My name is Duncan, this is Alistair, and the young woman yet to awaken is-'

'Spare me your fucking life story' he growled 'and just tell me what the fuck is happening.'

If Duncan was taken aback at his brutal face, his ruined snarl and his worse temper, he gave no outward sign. Alistair, however, was a tad greener. The boy struggled to hold his gaze, and made no effort to hide his anger.

-oOo-

_So began a lengthy conversation that covered just enough for him to learn where he was, who the Grey Wardens were, and why darkspawn are such utter bastards in dire need of genocide. You've heard it all before, and this narrator is too lazy to go through it all in detail, so assume they just shoved the entire fucking wiki down his throat. Still with us? Good!_

-oOo-

'So we're outnumbered, I fell from the sky and you didn't see a problem in conscripting me?' the Hound asked.

'Pweddy muck' said Alistair from behind a broken nose and a (now) crimson hankie. He had been too free with that smart mouth of his, and Sandor was not a patient man. Nor was he a good man, nor a nice man, really.

'The King has asked for the new recruit to accompany me to the meeting. I believe he meant the elf' he said, gesturing to the five-foot nothing girl with the really messed up ears. She was still out.

_Some warrior that one . . ._

'But as the nightmares still hold her, and as you bear this nations emblem proudly' he said, gesturing to the helmet that gave him his name 'I will ask if you would take her place, and meet the king. Teyrn Loghain will also be in attendance, along with a representative from the Chantry. Please make no comment to the mages, circumstances of your . . . arrival have already gained suspicion and I would not have you add to that.'

He didn't really see the point, but he's been listening to Joffrey for too long to believe meeting royalty was in any way a good thing.

Still, so long as their king wasn't some blond, arrogant, self-important little shit with no idea how life _really_ worked, it shouldn't be _too_ bad.

_Right?_

-oOo-

_Well, fuck me._

Cailan was a bit like Tommen, actually. Sweet, naïve, and painfully fucking stupid, which is somewhat endearing in a child, less so in a grown man. Teyrn Loghain was a right miserable prick, who reminded him somewhat of Lord Tywin. If the two should ever meet, he didn't doubt they'd either conquer the world, or try and murder each other on the spot. There was also a guy in robes, and the ugliest, most withered looking old woman he'd ever seen here for the Faith, Chantry, whatever.

And now the little gold plated prick was trying to keep him out of the fight. _Guarding the beacon, my ass_ he thought. _Guarding your bastard brother, more like._

Sandor was many things. At the moment, he was horribly confused, tired, and worst of all, sober. He wanted a good fight to clear his head. And, if he squinted, Cailan sort of looked like Joffrey, in bad light. Which was really all the excuse he needed to tell the little shit what he'd been longing for.

'Fuck the beacon'

They fell speechless, not used to hearing such coarse language. Duncan cringed, a little.

'Fuck the Wardens'

Cailan looked fit to draw steel and challenge him to an honour duel. Loghain barely repressed a snort.

'Fuck the King'

The argument that followed has been lost to history, but survivors of Ostagar reported it was half as fierce as the battle itself. All we know for sure is that thirteen brave Templars lost their lives, The Grey Wardens were almost exiled from Ferelden on the eve of battle, and the Grand Cleric learnt a new word at the age of 72.

That word started with a C, and sounded a lot like runt.

-oOo-

The girl was finally up. The shouting probably had something to do with that. She would be going with Alistair up the tower to light the beacon. He'd be fighting with the king.

Like a good dog.

The horde was coming through the trees now. A few of the men looked a little green, in pallor and in skill. A growl from his fearsome helmet terrified them into obedience. Sandor was having a good afterlife so far. It was like the events of his life summed up into one night. Idiot kings, shit soldiers and now, to represent Gregor (and himself if he was honest) the monsters were coming. He was even pleasantly plastered. Cailan had been against his participation, towards the end, but had been overruled by the Teyrn. After all, few were expected to survive the meat-grinder. Joffrey's dog snorted. _Valar Morghulis _and all that crap.

Arrows were coming down now. One volley . . . no second volley. Dogs are charging, making a lot of noise but the spawn hack them down without breaking stride. Now we're charging past the defensive lines, grossly over extending, the poor imitation of King Robert waving his blade like a knight in some painting while the army is cut to shreds.

Somewhere, Tywin Lannister is pissing himself laughing.

-oOo-

He can't remember how long he's been fighting. These monsters look like the true souls of human killers. The little bird would have spouted some pretty line like that.

Concentrate.

Big ugly thing with horns that would have towered over Gregor approaches. King Idiot takes a swing. Misses. Dies. Bit of a crap way to go.

Now Duncan is stabbing it. Again. And again.

The horned thing is down. Still no beacon. The bastard and the elf have managed to fail their task. Duncan gets bisected by an axe wielding man-sized . . . thing. Darkspawn, whatever.

No point in staying. The army has broken. The Teyrn isn't coming. Time to flee the field.

The beacon lights up, two hours too late. _That bastard has far too many teeth_, Sandor thought as he tucked tail and ran. _If ever I see him again, I'll correct that_.

Other deserters ran alongside him. The slow ones in front caught his blade.

Running.

One thing was now abundantly clear to him. He wasn't dead. This was not one of the Seven Hells. He was in some strange new world, with no way back to Westeros. He would never kill his brother, never see Joffrey toppled in some inevitable uprising, never see _her_ again. The little bird. Some small part of his blackened heart hoped she survived long enough to grow up. Now he was a Grey Warden, whatever that meant, had managed to wind up every one of importance in Ferelden and fought a horde of grumpkins. And lost. One sentiment rang true, no matter where he was.

'Fuck the Gods.'

**Sorry about the long delay, but I don't keep to a schedule. The chapters come when they come. **


End file.
